Johnlock Post-Reichenbach - FINISHED
by pigtheowl
Summary: I hope that's better format for the person who gave me the advice - didn't totally understand it, but I hope this helps. Anyway, just some Johnlock fluff and post-Reichenbach feels.
1. Chapter 1

**I do not own any of these characters. Believe me, if I did, I would've made Sherlock and John get married instead of Mary and John. (Moffaaaat!) Also, this might contain feels - just a warning. Honestly, I hate that word, but there's no other way to put it, so... Oh and it's from Sherlock's POV, of course. He's such a little sh*t. Also, I might not update as much as I'd like to (or, possibly, as much as you'd like me to), but I'll try to post a few new chapters every week.**

**Okay - here goes.**

I've been watching John since the beginning. And I don't mean from the beginning, as in his birth - I'm not _that _old - I mean, of course, since a coffin was buried in the cemetery under my name. He's come to visit the grave every day, even the week he was sick and it was raining out - raining more than it usually does in London.

Graham's been to visit once or twice, of course, muttering "I wish you were here, Sherlock" sometimes, and so have Andersen and Donovan, holding hands and Andersen stroking his beard, as if he noticed something was off with my fake suicide - I noticed he wasn't wearing his wedding ring. His wife divorced him, finally.

The Woman even came once, wearing a hood that hung over her eyes except for when she kneeled over my grave and whispered _"I know you're there, Sherlock." _She seemed to be recovering well from Arabia or wherever it was she was nearly executed, and was wearing a simple diamond ring - an engagement ring, I noticed. Possibly from her assistant. I didn't come out. She could have told John. Or she could have assumed that he knew, being as close as we were.

But none visited as often as he had, or cried as much as him. My blogger. My roommate. My best - and only - friend. But in the end, he was so much more than just that.

Feelings had never worked for me. And I had been scarred for life when Redbeard, my childhood dog, had died. Mycroft had never helped either - with his incessant "feelings are not an advantage, Sherlock."

So I tried ignoring them. And when that didn't work, I turned to drugs. When Mycroft found out - he was bound to, with all his cameras everywhere - and burned all my supplies. So I pretended they didn't exist, and sometimes that worked. But sometimes my feelings were too strong for me to simply play pretend.

Like with John.

I watched him at the grave as much as I could, but he stayed out there for sometimes hours on end, and I had appointments with Mycroft to talk about coming back - if I ever would. In the end, we had decided, yes - but a little at a time. Bit by bit. Person by person. Of course, we would save the ones most likely to spread the truth for the end - idiots like Donovan and Andersen. And probably Gilbert.

Now, I crouched in the grass, hiding behind trees, waiting for my blogger. He usually came three times a day - he was nearly due for his second. 3:12 PM, sometimes 3:11. I checked my watch. It was 3:10.

A minute later, he came with a box and a nice couple of white roses, freshly cut. His hands were rough and had needle pricks on them - from his doctor work, I assumed. He knelt by my grave and opened the box.

My skull. I thought they'd have thrown that out by now for sure.

John laughed a little, but I heard the sadness in his voice.

"I've been talking to him," he said, his voice raspy. "Like you used to. There's Greg and Molly, of course, but they're always busy. And Donovan and Andersen are idiots - it's almost like they've all forgotten you. I haven't, Sherlock. I mean -" he gestured down to himself. "Look. I'm still talking to your grave, two years after the Reichenbach fall. So I started talking to Billy - but I won't need him anymore, I suppose. My mate Mike - you know him - I'm rooming with him. He offered to yesterday, at least - and I think I'm taking it. I have to move on - if I can, that is. And I can't quite talk to a skull in his presence. I might not -" he choked a little, and I shook my head, trying not to cry. "I might not visit as much anymore, Sherlock. But - I have to tell you something - I love you, Sherlock Holmes. Or, I suppose - I _was_ in love with you." He shakes his head a little. "Bloody hell, Sherlock."

Suddenly - before I could think about what I was doing - I was moving behind him and fishing my phone - that is, my new one - out of my pocket and typing a message in the message box, praying he had his mobile with him.

_Wrong (behind you. look.) -SH_

I heard his phone ding, and apparently he did, too, because he fished it out of the pocket of his khaki pants and checked message. I heard him gasp, a sharp intake of breath, and slowly, he turned around.

I'm sure my face was completely blank, because Mycroft never bothered to teach me what to do in these situations - not exactly what you would call "common."

John's eyes first rested on my feet, then traveled up me and came to stop on my face.

"What do you mean, wrong?" was the first thing he said, and it was completely ridiculous, because that's not at all what you're supposed to say when your best friend supposedly comes back from the dead - but then again, there's no handbook for this stuff.

"Present tense, John," I managed to choke out, and then he was standing up, his face tense, and I was sure he was about to punch me - but then he kissed me. And I was kissing back - a reflex, just a reflex, I told myself, but I knew it was hopeless trying to convince myself that - because my emotions for him were too strong to just pretend.

We broke away and John shook his head.

"You have to explain. Unless you're a hallucination and I'm -"

I scoffed. "You're not crazy, John, just a bit daft. Did that feel fake?"

"You - you're real?"

I shook my head. "_Idiot_." I saw his facial expression and smiled ever so slightly. "Don't take it personally, nearly everyone is." There was an awkward silence for a bit. "You're not angry, John?"

John rolled his eyes. "Can't we get to that later, Sherlock?" I pictured his lips, kissing so many lips, foreheads, bleeding from the cold, but they were soft now, on mine, and that was all that mattered. My blogger.


	2. Chapter 2

**I'm not very proud of this chapter, I liked the first one much better, but I don't think this one is ****_terrible. _****Just needs a little work for the future. I'm going to try to post more.**

John took me home in a cab. (We took Billy the skull with us.) We spent most of the ride in silence - I texted Mycroft back and forth angrily, telling him to leave me alone. I could feel John's eyes on me whenever he looked at me, which was really quite often - I suppose after two years of not seeing someone, you can't get enough of their face. I wouldn't know - two years of not seeing Mycroft would be quite pleasurable for me. But I suppose if I didn't see John for two whole years, thinking he was dead - I felt a twinge of sadness. Well, I suppose it was more than just a twinge - it was a bit like the sadness was sort of enfulging my brain, taking over my mind palace. I had never really liked metaphors - they always seemed like just an excuse for being completely unreasonable and childish - but this one seemed to fit.

There was also a bit of regret in that sadness.

I looked over at John - my blogger, or perhaps my ex-blogger - and he met my eyes.

"I'm so sorry," I whispered. "For -"

He cut me off. "Sherlock, I told you, there'll be a time for all that. Right now, can I just take this all in?"

"Yeah, I just -"

"Sherlock. You're not dead, you love me, you're not dead, also the fact that you, Sherlock Holmes, just _apologized _to me...mostly just the fact that you _love _me - it's a lot to take in for a normal person like me."

"You, John, are far from normal." He laughed a little, and I frowned. "What? Did I do something wrong?" The last thing I'd want to do would be to mess this up.

John shook his head, still laughing. "No, Sherlock. It's just...the last person I'd expect to say a cheesy rom-drom line is you."

"Rom-drom?"

"Romantic drama, Sherlock," John explained, and glanced at me out of the corner of his eyes. I met his gaze.

"John?"

"I just can't believe you're -"

"Alive. Yes, I know."

"Does anyone else know, Sherlock?" He asked, and I saw him catch his breath, waiting for an answer.

"Are you ready to be angry yet?" I asked, not sure if I wanted the answer.

John smiled. "Let's wait until we get back."

"You're still living at 221B, John?" I asked, surprised. "I would've thought the emotional drama would've been too much for you."

"Good to see someone's ego is still intact," John joked.

I sighed and ruffled my hair, putting my head into my hands.

"Sherlock? Are you -"

"John," I said, hearing my voice and the despair it contained, "I am so very sorry."

"Sherlock -"

"No," I said, sitting up straight. "No. It's not all right, John - you've lost weight, you've got scars - not self harm, just carelessness - PTSD - you're still getting nightmares, _two years later _\- I am so sorry, John, so, so, sorry."

John smiled sadly. "You haven't done that in a while, have you? Deduced someone."

"Who wasn't my brother, no, I haven't, thank you," I said in a rush.

"Of course _Mycroft _knows -"

"He's my brother, John. Even if he's an ass."


	3. Chapter 3

When we finally got back to the house (the cabby took the long way, God knows why), I couldn't help stopping at the doorway and staring. It had been two years since the fall, two years since Moriarty came and left that apple saying I O U, two years since I'd been in my old flat. And two years since I'd seen _John._

I was still getting over that last part.

"Two _years_, Sherlock Holmes." I snapped out of my daze to see John standing in front of me, looking up at me, his hands on his hips like some ignorant high school girl. "Two whole bloody years."

"John?"

"Shush, Sherlock, this is the part where I get angry at you," he whispered, and then continued. "Could you please tell me _why_?"

I bit my lip. "I suppose."

"So tell me."

"Moriarty was threatening to kill you, John," I said, and I hoped my voice wasn't trembling. "He was threatening to kill you. And if I didn't jump -"

"I would die," John finished. "But he died, the day I thought - why couldn't you -"

"Mycroft was making sure the coast was clear, John."

"And it took two entire years?" I didn't answer. "Sherlock, who else knows?"

"Molly. And a lot of the homeless -"

John interrupted, his face flushing angrily. "You told an entire brigade of homeless people you were still alive, but you didn't tell me? Sherlock, there is no good reason for that." I stayed silent. "Do you have any idea what you put me through?"

"Therapist sessions? Nightmares? Flashbacks? Yes, I do, John, and I'm sorry, I'm so, so sorry."

John shook his head, and for a second, his face softened, and then the second was lengthened to two, and then three, and then it was five long seconds, and he just collapsed.

"Sherlock -"

He was crying. Oh, _excellent_, he was crying. **A/N: That was Sherlock being sarcastic. Not sure if that was clear or not.** I had no idea what to do - make him some tea? Get him a shock blanket? **A/N: haha. **Comfort him?

I decided to go with the last option.

I kneeled beside him - he had collapsed on the floor - and awkwardly put my arms

around him. I, the man without any emotions, the man who had never kissed a woman, the man without a heart to burn, comforting my crying flat mate. It was rather a mess.

"John, shh," I said, because that was what they said in movies. "John, shh, it's okay...now," I added, because it certainly hadn't been all right before. "John…"

"You bastard," John said, and I felt a pang in my heart. John looked up at me, his face tear-streaked.

"John -" He put his mouth on mine, and I responded, shocked, as the blogger kissed his flatmate like there was no one else in the world, only him and me in 221B Baker Street.

And I can't say I didn't enjoy that.


End file.
